The Afrit, the Envelope, and the Ambassador's Wife
by Grigori
Summary: This was referred to in a footnote. Thought I'd have fun with it :P The Persian Ambassador is murdered. Farrar deceives Mandrake. An Afrit is set loose.
1. Chapter 1

Not my characters (duh) Enjoy, hope y'all like it!

**Chapter 1**

Nathaniel, known to the world as John Mandrake, minister of Internal Affairs, walked with a slightly contrived attitude of blasé, casual nonchalance. To passerby on the Whitehall lawns he smiled or nodded. To people of higher status he greeted in a forced monotone. His demeanour was almost impenetrable. Except… perhaps his gait was a little too quick, his fingers a tad too fidgety. With annoyance, Nathaniel tried to calm these quirks, to avoid the impression, albeit the truthful impression, of being _eager_.

The pillared halls of Whitehall made no impression on Nathaniel today as he tripped lightly up the steps and into a small recess where gilded elevators ascended to the offices above. Nathaniel entered one, pressed the third floor button, and watched as the doors closed in front of him. Being it was an early morning, Nathaniel had the elevator to himself. Taking advantage of the solitude, he checked himself in the reflective surface of the silver elevator doors. He adjusted his handkerchief, (canary yellow, on this occasion), and flicked back a couple strands of his unruly, long black hair. With annoyance, he noticed a smudge on the pointy tip of his shoe. Wetting a finger he bent to remove it.

Ping! The elevators doors slid open with a rush. Abandoning his attempt, Nathaniel jerked violently upright, hair and handkerchief flailing, and made to exit the elevator.

"You got my memo I see."

Jane Farrar had been crossing the atrium and had now paused, one hand carrying a wad of files and the other on her hip. Nathaniel stepped forward in as much of an elegant manner as he could muster. In irritation, he felt himself blushing, and worrying about the condition of his appearance.

"I did indeed. With what did you need my help?"

"Oh my, John, you are eagerness itself! Come. I'm on my way to my office, I'll tell you there. It's not exactly information one discloses in a public location."

Turning to go she glanced back over her shoulder, waiting for Nathaniel to fall into step beside her. They set off down the hall.

"By the way," Farrar remarked, "You have dirt. On your shoe."

Once they reached Farrar's office Farrar threw the folders on her large desk and settled into a chair behind it. She motioned for Nathaniel to take the chaise next to her.

"Like the office?" asked Farrar.

Nathaniel had been making a cursory examination of the office space. It was a very large office, bright with whitewash walls. The desk was made out of a dark walnut and the windows gave an expansive view of the Thames.

"I'm just settling in. This is the police chief's office."

"Didn't come with the title, too?"

Nathaniel smiled slyly to himself. Backhanded compliments were a highlight of company with Farrar.

Despite being the defacto head of the Night Police, Jane Farrar was still only by name the deputy chief of police. This was a sign of the prime minister's paranoid megalomania, adopting the title of 'Chief of the Night Police' himself.

"Oh I certainly couldn't compare with an important minister like _you , _John." Farrar replied, tilting her head, lips smiling, catlike, "Internal Affairs is an impressive mantle. Just think; you're following in the footsteps of great magicians, like Underwood. And Tallow."

"Hmm." Nathaniel gave a non-committal groan.

"Well. Let me tell you what this is all about. Two nights ago, there was a murder in Kensington-"

"A murder? How exactly does this involve Internal Affairs?"

Farrar blinked, "The murder victim was the Persian Ambassador, Arsalan Nazari"

"Well that's interesting, and unusual. How was he murdered?"

"A high level magical attack; presumably an inferno. Half the embassy was burnt."

Nathaniel frowned, "He was murdered in the embassy? Forgive me, but the embassy is technically Persian territory. It's hardly a matter for Internal Affairs."

"You haven't heard the whole story,

"As you know, Persia is not an overtly hostile country but neither is it friendly to Britain. We could say that it is a neutralized nation. We trade for their oil and various curios, such as that Persian carpet used in Heddleham Hall. Needless to say the British interfered heavily in Iraq, and the Persians have hated us ever since. Anyway, it would not be unexpected for them to subtly sabotage the British government by supporting our enemies."

"How would they be able to? Persia, by no means is a threat to British power."

"Perhaps not, Mandrake. But Persia in its day was a mighty empire. And certainly there are relics from those old days that must exist within the ruins of Persepolis and Ctesiphon today. Some of them have been unearthed, and protected with everything the Persian government could devise. Some of these artefacts may have been smuggled via the Persian embassy to rogues here in London."

"I have not heard of this."

Farrar adopted a consoling face, "Oh I quite understand John, Internal affairs can't be expected to keep an eye on _all_ internal affairs, can they?"

Mandrake smirked, "Well, we do manage the ones that are actually important. It's a relief we have the police to pick up the mundane extras."

"I'm telling you John. This particular case is interesting. We've kept an eye on certain questionable members of society, including Mr. Nazari. He engaged a certain carrier service to deliver his official mail. The carrier is a djinni in police employ. The day of the murder, Mr. Nazari was intended to receive a certain envelope. This envelope posted no return address, which naturally piqued our curiosity. We appropriated that letter. That night, the news-lacking ambassador was murdered."

"You didn't return the letter to him?"

"We would have. His carrier service delivers to him every morning. The letter, having no date posted anywhere upon it, would arouse less suspicions by being delivered a day late rather than at an altogether unorthodox time later in the morning. Here it is."

From a drawer, Jane Farrar drew forth a small white envelope. On the front side was scrawled the name of the ambassador and the embassy's address. On the back side was a blood red wax seal, now broken in two. Nathaniel slipped his hand inside the envelope and removed a small piece of unadorned paper. It read:

_ Mr. Nazari:_

_ This week's arrangements are behind schedule. Further delay is unacceptable._

_ Moesia_

Nathaniel leaned back and raised his eyebrows at Farrar, "Very secretive."

"Isn't it though? Whatever these people wanted, they don't seem to have gotten it. And as a result the ambassador is dead."

"And I suppose nothing is known about the origin of this envelope?"

"No. The carrier was approached by a messenger imp. The imp has undoubtedly been dismissed or eaten in the interim. So, the envelope seems to be untraceable."

"Any luck tracking down Moesia?"

"Likely a code word, rather than an actual name, I think. Moesia… its historical references seem to have no bearing,

"The other angle is that the Ambassador's wife seems to have disappeared. From the embassy we recovered two bodies, that of the ambassador and of his secretary. But his wife was not found, nor has she been present these past two days. Possibly, this was a case of blackmail."

Nathaniel nodded, "So no tangible leads, then? I can see, truly, why the police would request my department's help on this case. Yet I still feel it isn't a matter that concerns Internal Affairs."

"Perhaps not, John. But what if it were?" Farrar pried, "If you had enough wit to see it, you'd see that I'm doing you a _favour._ And besides, you know," Farrar practically purred, "I actually like working with _you."_

Farrar caught Mandrake in a sidelong glance, then. Her eyes fluttered becomingly.

Baloney, thought Nathaniel. Quite patently, the truth was that this case was overwhelming and carried an inherent risk of failure. In which case, Jane Farrar needed another department to foist blame upon.

But strangely, this fact didn't repulse Nathaniel. He found himself not caring, wanting to accept the potential risks. All that was necessary was to work hard and succeed. And it meant he could work alongside Jane Farrar. A hint of her fruity perfume caught his attention. Yes, there was definitely an attraction to working with _her._ Nathaniel couldn't ignore that he felt a certain pleasure at the prospect of adopting this case.

Jane Farrar smiled at him, "I'll leave this folder with you. It's a copy of the case files." She adopted an innocent expression, "Tell me if you get anything."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Jane Farrar lounged in her office chair, gazing distractedly over the memos and reports lying haphazardly across the deskspace. The ringing of the phone finally pulled her back into focus. She answered, and her secretary put through a call from Mr. Mandrake.

She expected nothing more than a tumultuous apology and a recount of his continuing lack of success. Unbeknownst to Mandrake, the council was becoming slightly irked with the lack of results.

Whitwell was using the Persian embassy affair as an example of the lackadaisical work of the Night Police, trying to influence the Prime Minister to support her Security Department. She asked Farrar directly what was being done.

"In fact, the affair is being dealt with by the department of Internal Affairs" she replied coolly. Farrar smiled as Whitwell's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Internal Affairs was meant to be under her control. The other council ministers sniggered, knowing Whitwell had walked into a trap.

Farrar was quite conscious of how easily she could manipulate Mandrake. With every opportunity, his eyes snuck an appraising look. He had to visibly restrain himself from grinning when they met.

It was therefore so easy to persuade Mandrake to stick his scrawny little neck out for this ridiculous case. Farrar knew this was something to distance herself from as soon as the accident had happened without police sources being aware that anything was going on. The 'letter' had been written by her own hand; a trivial piece of 'evidence' that would seemingly give Mandrake a direction with which to take his investigations, but that would lead him into a blundering circle. Likewise, the story about intercepted mail had been a lie too. The Persian ambassador had absolutely no prior history of anything clandestine.

However, the attack _had_ been a magical attack, while the ambassador was not a magician, and his wife, Shaesta, was truly missing. This seemed to indicate a murder, or something gone amiss, and couldn't be swept away conveniently as an accident.

Mandrake, on the other end of the phone, seemed breathless and excited.

"I think I figured something out! About the case. Can I come over right away?"

"A breakthrough? _Really_, Mandrake, tell me more. What have you found out?"

"About the letter. I've got it, I think." He paused for breath, "But you aren't going to like it. We'll need to meet. Are you busy now?"

Jane Farrar's eyes widened in alarm. Mandrake's discovery, whatever it was, was irrelevant to the case. Unless he had guessed at her deception. Was this why he wanted to meet her right away?

The question had been asked suddenly, and Jane found herself looking for an excuse to delay her answer so her mind would have time to process the possibilities and weigh the risks. Through the phone, she felt as If Mandrake picked up on her hesitation.

"The council meeting is tonight, John, you know that."

"Oh yes, of course. Hopefully, it won't take long. An hour at most. Shall I come by immediately?"

Jane folded. It would be better to contain the threat of John Mandrake as soon as possible. "Yes, my schedule should be free. I'll be waiting… _eagerly._" Her voice trailed seductively, purely out of habit.

Farrar watched Mandrake through the office door as he checked himself in the hall mirror. He was continuously readjusting his excessively lacy cuffs and smoothing his long greasy hair. She rolled her eyes. He looked equally ridiculous before as after. When he finally turned and noticed Farrar watching him, she smiled sweetly. He flushed a bright pink, and rushed to approach Farrar.

"So, what_ is _this discovery you're so excited about? You were so breathless on the phone I feared you were having an asthma attack."

Mandrake's face flushed a deeper pink. He stuttered, "O-oh, not at all. My phone connection has been rather poor lately, I'm to have it fixed tomorrow."

Jane Farrar flashed an amused grin and took her seat, indicating Mandrake to sit also.

"Listen, Farrar, I think I've figured out the envelope!"

Jane's heart tightened instantaneously, and she forced it to relax. Outwardly, she remained perfectly placid.

"Do go on."

"Well, you know how the letter was signed 'Moesia'. Well that doesn't really mean anything, does it? It isn't likely a codeword, and it's not an anagram. Logically, it must be a name."

Jane Farrar was confused, but she was beginning to relax. Moesia was a name she'd used completely at random. It was the name of a tiny Roman province in the Balkans.

"But, Moesia is not really a name. Not a _human_ name, anyway." Here he paused, for dramatic effect. Jane Farrar pretended to look at the boy in awe.

"What if it were the name of a _demon?_"

"Oh!"

"Doesn't it make sense? Mr. Nazari was supposed to summon this demon and get information from it. All we have to do is replace Mr. Nazari and summon the thing instead!"

Jane Farrar blinked. One thing magicians do _not_ do is summon demons by throwing random names out into the ether. It's just an exceedingly stupid and dangerous thing to do, not knowing the level of powerof the thing you're summoning. Normally, demons, when summoned, are constrained by the pentacles according to the level of their power. Without knowing the level of power of a demon means the pentacle could summon anything from a mite to a marid. And if it were a marid… things could easily get out of control.

"Mr. Nazari was not a magician, though."

"Do we know that for certain? He might very well have been taught the arts in Persia."

Jane Farrar played with a dangling strand of hair. She was caught in an awkward situation. To keep her lie intact, she would have to go along with Mandrake's suggestion, which amounted to folly. Otherwise, she would have to risk her reputation if it were revealed she tampered with an Internal Affairs investigation. Mandrake would certainly take political advantage of that. How she wished she hadn't tried to be clever and had just signed 'Mr. Smith'.

"Interesting theory. And what do you need _my_ help for?"

Now Mandrake hesitated. Jane Farrar raised an innocent eyebrow. Of course, what Mandrake had come for was obvious. Most powerful spirits needed two magicians (at least) to constrain them.

Mandrake began bumbling out an explanation of the dangers involved.

"John"

"Mhmm?"

"Stop talking. I know why you need me."

Mandrake smiled playfully. "Are you nervous?"

"You are an idiot, John, but your idea might get us some results."

Mandrake nodded, satisfied, "I doubt that the demon will be of much power. It would have to be something within the competence level of the victim."

Jane Farrar nodded in agreement, although she understood that this was not necessarily so. She led Mandrake out of the office, and through a couple hallways until they reached a whitewashed summoning chamber.

A standard pentacle was drawn out on the smooth wooden floor. From cabinets ranged along one wall, the two magicians brought out candles, incense, herbs and chalk, to adjust the pentacle's constraints for both magicians at once.

Farrar and Mandrake worked in silence, in anticipation of what they were about to do. Farrar was impressed by the scale of Mandrake's commitment. Perhaps she had charmed the adolescent too much.

Finally, the pentacle was ready.

"I'll speak the summoning" she offered.

"Alright."

Farrar was standing in the magician's circle already, Mandrake took a breath and stepped in beside her. The circle was large but he stepped quite close. Farrar smirked, pushed him back slightly, and began.

The words of summoning were indeed very short, being so unspecific towards any particular demon. That was what made the operation so dangerous. When Jane shut her mouth after the last syllable, she fixed the opposite pentacle in her catlike stare.

For a moment, it seemed that nothing was there, that the summoning hadn't worked.

Then, with a sudden rush, thunder and heat exploded from the other pentacle. A visible shockwave rippled the air, hitting Farrar and Mandrake with a raging force. The fluorescent lights flickered like strobe-lights, revealing mirror images of two cowering magicians in the demon's pentacle. Then the lights cut out completely, and the entire room was temporarily plunged into utter blackness before blue electric currents began running across the patterns of the pentacle. As if put out with the perfection of the pentacle, they turned dangerously red, while a blood-curdling howl sounded directly in the magicians' ears.

A tornado tore itself from the wooden floor, reaching to the ceiling. A massive, dark form emerged from the middle of the winds, and opened its ominous, fiery eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Mandrake and Farrar were still trying to recover from the initial shock of the demon's brute power. Nathaniel wheezed. He glanced at Farrar, who was panting gently. The demon towered over them, utterly silent. The lights had only half-returned, casting the room in a hazy, grey glow.

Farrar was the first to recover. She took a breath and stared down the demon. She spoke in a curt, direct tone, "What level are you?"

The demon did not move. It did not appear to have a mouth, but a loud whisper reverberated around the walls of the room with an eerie premonition, "I am an afrit. Of the highest level"

Something to knock the wind out of both Jane and Nathaniel together would indeed have to be something powerful, but this made no sense to Nathaniel. He had expected nothing more than a cheery implet, or a foliot at most. In truth, the reason he had proposed a joint summoning with Farrar was only partly for the off chance that something might go wrong, but mainly because there was something delicious about defying danger with Jane Farrar next to him. Her look of trepidation when he proposed his plan was exquisite and unique; Farrar was one who always seemed sure of herself.

Nathaniel thought his theory was solid. The victim would get a letter, signed with a demon's name. Then, he'd summon the demon to get the information.

Although in retrospect, Nathaniel realized, maybe this was still true, although the demon he summoned was this afrit, which was too powerful for him and led to the explosion. Then again, supposedly, he hadn't received the envelope to know the name of the demon to call.

Something was still missing.

Nathaniel took a breath and addressed the demon himself, "Who was your previous master, demon?"

"I never knew his name."

Right. That might have been obvious. Nathaniel reconsidered. A question formed inside his head, he almost dared not ask it, "_When_ were you last summoned?"

The disembodied whisper answered.

Nathaniel gulped, his knees went weak. His idea was completely wrong. Again he glanced at Jane Farrar. The skepticism on her face made it clear she realized this. He felt like such a fool.

"Well?" she hissed, "dismiss it!"

Nathaniel pondered this, not comprehending the words at first. Then he nodded. The words… what were they? This was something Nathaniel was usually proficient with. It was simply an exercise in memorizing the correct syllables; the greater the spirit the more complicated the dismissal. Essentially, it was a process of releasing the bonds of the pentacle one by one without letting the demon have enough power to harm you until it was finally free, and disconnected from the earthly dimension.

Somewhere in his books, Nathaniel had read the words. He _knew_ he knew them. But he had trouble concentrating, whether from the sudden collapse of his self-assured theory, or the knowledge of the sheer power of the demon in the other pentacle. And then there was Jane Farrar, who was staring intently towards him with raised eyebrows.

Come on, he had dismissed Ramuthra before now! He had the first syllables. He kept trying.

The afrit was clearly paying attention to the situation. The massive outline had vanished. Instead, a nimble creature crouched low and menacingly in the pentacle, flexing its shadowy limbs, ready to leap forward and tear them both apart. It chuckled darkly.

Jane Farrar snapped around, sharpish, bearing her pointed canines. "Listen Demon, and obey. You shall go forth from this place and seek out the former wife of the deceased Persian ambassador. Her name is Shaesta Nazari. You will do so without delay or deviation, unassumingly and expediently, and will return,'' Here she glared pointedly towards Nathaniel again, "to Mr. Mandrake here, with your charge, again without deviation or delay, where you shall attend to him. Is this understood, demon?"

"It is, ma'am"

"Then depart."

The crouched demon shattered into a million shards, before a violent sucking noise pulled them from the pentacle with alarming speed, threatening to impale Jane and Nathaniel (but they didn't) and finally vanishing completely. The room lights returned to their full strength.

Nathaniel stood still in the pentacle, head spinning.

Jane turned on him, hair disheveled, eyes furious. She slapped him. Hard.

"Ow!"

"THAT, was for putting me in danger."

Nathaniel rubbed his cheek gingerly, forcing himself not to cry. He mumbled out an apology.

"Well your idea was completely wrong, wasn't it?" her chest heaved, "The only good thing to come out of this, is that we now have this afrit doing what your poor excuse for a department has been failing to do this whole time, that is: tracking down a lead."

Nathaniel stood there dumbfoundedly. He felt his mouth hanging limply open, and shut it. Jane turned to go.

"Wait. Did you just give an _afrit_ an open door injunction to return to me at any time?"

Jane turned back towards him, eyes now scathing, but amused, "Yes. I did. Consider it further punishment for putting me in danger with your whimsical theories. And whenever it finds you," she smirked, "I wish it luck."

And then she turned and left the room, heels clacking imperiously on the marble floors. She rounded the corner without a backwards glance.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey y'all, I'm back! Sorry, it's been a while, I know. Thanks for all the reviews! I want moar!**

**Chapter 4**

I felt the tugging in my essence.

Now I wonder who might be summoning me? Most certainly, it wouldn't be Nathaniel, alias John Mandrake. No. Because he dismissed me barely a month ago with the understanding that I'd get a good and proper rest in the Other Place. And surely, not even the most rude, arrogant, self-important wind-bag of a magician would be so callous as to go back on their own word and wrench my pour dilapidated soul from – oh, of course it's Mandrake.

In the pentacle, I took on a decidedly irritable guise. An entirely unimpressed and inanimate footstool appeared in my pentacle and just sat there.

Mandrake, in his patented, ridiculous, not-quite-spandex black suit, was looking slightly more haggard than I'd last seen him. He eyed the footstool askance.

I would have been more enraged if I hadn't expected this backstabbery from him. But I've had years of practice with Mandrake promising me freedom, only to have him summon me back for increasingly less life-threatening or ambitious reasons. Last time he summoned me it was to help him with paperwork. The nerve!

"Bartimaeus? Could you change into something, a little more… impressive?"

The wood grain on the seat of my stool contorted into a mouth. "I could, but I don't feel like it. Now what do you want?"

Oo, did I sound peeved. And now I could see that I was having an effect on the kid. He _was_ haggard. His hair was slightly disheveled. He'd brushed it over to try and make a good impression on me, but he kept fidgeting, twitching his fingers and pulling at his mane of greasy locks. This was interesting. I've seen Mandrake at his worst (and I mean _worst_), and he's never much bothered with trying to impress me by covering up his little insecurities. That he was nervous and disheveled of course was nothing new.

This gave me something to go on.

"Well, I can only imagine why you'd bring to your tortuous earth. Did you misplace your shampoo? Come across a dirty tissue on your desk?"

"Whatever Bartimaeus. This is serious. I need you to guard me, protect me."

"Hmm… I'd rather not. Now why don't you go ahead and dismiss me and get yourself a nice and qualified imp."

Mandrake stamped his foot, "No. I'm the master here, and you must to as I bid you."

The footstool burst out laughing. It was as if he had just reverted to his twelve year old self. I just couldn't take him seriously.

"Why?" I sneered, "What should I protect you from? Did Jessica Whitwell feel you were getting too important and finally decide to knock you off?"

Mandrake looked at me scornfully. He wasn't among the top council magicians yet; he didn't understand.

Mandrake twitched his fingers and ran a hand through his hair. "Bartimaeus? You've fought a lot of spirits before now, haven't you? You're always bragging about it."

The footstool felt the need to puff itself up with importance, but footstools can't really _do _that. "Of course I have, I've been in a hundred battles between civilizations that have long since crumbled to dust. You want a complete repertoire? We might be here for days."

The magician groaned. "That won't be necessary."

Now it was time to get serious. This wasn't a very promising situation and I was getting an eerie feeling. I shifted to Ptolemy's form and faced him eye to eye. "What _exactly_ is going on, and what is it you need me to protect you from?"

Mandrake took a deep breath and swallowed. I rather noticed that he was purposefully avoiding eye contact. "Farrar and I co-summoned an afrit, and it… got out of control. Its charge is to return to me when it has information. When it completes its charge, it'll be free to do whatever it wants."

Ptolemy shook his head. "That's bad."

"I can't dismiss it without Farrar, and she has refused to help."

"Of course she has," I agreed, eyeing him meaningfully, "who would go out of their way to help _you_? Unless of course, they were under a direct charge."

Mandrake fidgeted some more.

I ventured a hesitant question, "What level of afrit?"

"Thirteenth," he whispered.

"Ah." I said. Well that was bad. If it were a lowly afrit, I'd be able to outfox him any day. But a thirteenth level afrit is practically a marid, and just like toddlers or luggage, never to be left unattended.

"Well?" Mandrake asked. His face was pinched and he was sweating. I realized the strain he must be under having summoned both me and a powerful afrit. Poor little guy needed some good news to buck him up.

"No."

"What do you mean, no?"

"Say your prayers, buddy, cause you're a dead man walking. Nothing I can do about it. A thirteenth level afrit? Are you insane?" I paused. "Well, yes, I suppose you are. But your genius plans of summoning spirits way beyond your capacities is finally going to get you killed. And if you aren't careful, they'll kill me too."

Ptolemy's eyes flashed.

Mandrake gulped, ran a hand through his hair. "There's only one other thing we can do. If we can solve the mystery before the afrit does, I would be able to persuade Farrar to dismiss it with me."

Ptolemy rolled his eyes. "Oh I see where this is going." And I did too. I could chastise, demean, and berate Nathaniel all I wanted, but he wouldn't listen. He would come up with some clever security against me letting slip his birth name and I would be stuck putting my essence at risk saving him from being killed by his own ineptitude.

If it weren't for that inconvenient master-servant dichotomy, I would have laughed in his face and dematerialized back to the peace of the Other Place. But instead, I ground my teeth as Mandrake nodded and began to explain the situation of the explosion and the missing ambassador's wife.


End file.
